


holiday

by flybynight



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Age Difference, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Nude Beach, Romance, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 18:05:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14624145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flybynight/pseuds/flybynight
Summary: What should have been an unremarkable summer holiday for Arthur becomes something else entirely when his friends take him somewhere unexpected.





	holiday

**Author's Note:**

> pairing: usuk (with small smattering of side-france/spain)  
> rating: M (for suggestive and not-so-suggestive language)  
> warnings: arthur’s sass, honestly.  
> notes: Another fic I posted to tumblr a couple of months ago, written for a friend. :) I miss writing very much, this one was incredible enjoyable to write. I hope I can do more like it.

He can taste it on his tongue– summer sweat and the tang of ocean’s spray from the coast, a light balm for the steady pummeling of heat from the sun above them, but one would never believe it to be oppressive. No, everyone seemed perfectly happy to be where they were, and Arthur can’t say that it’s not at the very least pleasant. It was warm, yes, but it was bearable– especially when tucked under awnings or umbrellas and the like. Arthur had his own ways to deal with sunlight, and they worked just fine for him (thank you very much).

Francis had called him a killjoy before they’d even gotten on the plane to get here, which was what made him want to prove him wrong that much more about his ability to enjoy himself when the situation called for it. But Arthur didn’t get a chance to laugh in his face, because by then Francis was already half snogging Antonio in line for boarding, while Arthur pretended he wasn’t with them and kept his nose firmly buried in his travel brochure. Technically, he really wasn’t “with them”. This was their trip, a honeymoon of sorts even though they weren’t married, but had been dating on and off for about eight years now– fairly impressive, considering the number of notches in their individual  bedposts combined.

Seeing as he was a mutual friend to the two of them, Arthur was invited to share in their little celebration on a trip to Antonio’s home town in Spain, near Sitges, and all of the buggery and debauchery that entailed. Meaning, Arthur was happy to come along as long as they all split the bill for the hotel, beverages, and they kept their flagrant PDA to a minimum while he was around. He managed to get them to agree to exactly two of those things.

They’d all been friends since university, and with Francis even longer than that, though sometimes he still wasn’t entire sure how it’d worked out that way. Arthur’s world was a long ways away from the one they were in and shared between the two of them, with fashion and art and photography, while he scraped by working part time in retail outlets until finally breaking into the fast paced and exciting world of bookkeeping.

Needless to say, Arthur was all about excitement, if it wasn’t obvious. That was the entire reason he’d agreed to go with them.

Now they were here, and Arthur, having spent weeks preparing himself for a trip far away from his dusty flat and boring, menial job back in London, was for once excited at the prospect of doing what most normal people did on holidays to places like Spain. Sun, sand, and sea, Antonio had promised, and those were all good things in moderation. He was willing to partake if it meant he’d get a decent drink and a space to lie down and binge read his favorite novels.

So… he really hadn’t been prepared for this.

“I’m going back to the hotel,” Arthur blurted out as soon as they’d stepped out of the taxi and marched over the crest of a hill overlooking the stunning white sanded beach below, dotted with towels, umbrellas, and an array of glistening, gloriously nude bodies in various positions of activity. Some big, some small, some beautiful, some… well. Arthur already felt like he was going to faint from the miserable hangover he’d been sporting from their bar hopping the night before, and there simply wasn’t enough aspirin in the known universe for this.

“You can’t, Arthur! This is the most beautiful beach here, I guarantee you will love it!” Antonio chirped, somehow having already latched onto his arm in a shiny, muscled death grip, “It’s very freeing!”

Arthur eyed an older gentlemen strutting past them with a belly that was just nearly hanging all the way to his hairy knees. “Yes, I can see that.”

“You’ll be riding back alone and you can’t even pronounce the name of the hotel,” Francis commented wisely, smug as he was already stripping, slipping out of his designer shirt and sandals and flicking his sunglasses over his eyes. In that instant Arthur knew that he had likely been the mastermind behind this nonsense, since Francis tended to have no qualms (and no shame) about things like this.

“Just because I can’t speak fluent Spanish–”

“You can’t speak  _any_  Spanish.”

“I will push you down this hill,” Arthur spat, but realized there wasn’t much he could do in the grand scheme of things. He didn’t have his wallet with him, Antonio was their official navigator. His throat was dry and laying about in the breeze really did sound better than breathing in recycled air conditioning back in the hotel. He could do this. He was “adventurous”.

So there he was, laying out his towel like he’d planned, crawling underneath an umbrella and folding his arms across his still clothed chest like a stubborn child as the crowds around them on the beach surged. The delighted squeals and screams of young folk scampering across the sand or splashing into the foamy waves were raucous, while others simply strolled peacefully along, bare and naked as the day they were born. And here Arthur had thought leaving the top two buttons of his sensible, short sleeved shirt open was a bit too much.

Fucking hell.

Antonio and Francis at least tried to be good friends by sticking with him. Francis procured them some sangria (any excuse to walk past people on his way to the outdoor drink bar, flaunting his smile and hairy chest), while Antonio oiled himself up and pretended not to notice the blatant stares nearby from anyone with two eyes and a functioning libido.

“You want to come for a swim?” Antonio asked him, smoothing some of the oil into his hair. Upon Francis’s return, he did the lion’s share of oogling, and Arthur wondered why the hell they’d even bothered to leave their hotel room if they were simply going to eye-fuck each other for the entire trip.

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” Arthur replied primly, glass in one hand and book in the other. The novel wasn’t going to read itself, and it was imperative that he distract himself from the fact that everyone else around him was insane. Arthur was adventurous, yes, but he had standards. He was also pasty white and knew exactly how long it took for him to burn to a crisp in the sun, nevermind the idea of walking about with his nethers on display being the worst possible thing he could ever do.

He was halfway through a single page when Antonio came sauntering back from a short dip to plop down on his towel, tossing sand about and sprinkling droplets of seawater as he stretched and rolled onto Francis to chatter about something. Arthur wasn’t really listening, the rim of his glass at his lips as he read, but he heard Francis chuckle salaciously about something, and though Arthur didn’t look up, he raised an eyebrow.

“Mm, yes, I see him. Did you say hello?”

“Should I have?”

“Might be interesting…”

The thing about Francis and Antonio was, they both had an intense appreciation for ‘pretty people’, as they’d explained to him numerous times and in between flirtatious comments and too many drinks (somehow Arthur only managed to qualify when they were all properly sloshed, not that he cared, but it was awfully coincidental). The way they talked about strangers sometimes made Arthur feel in desperate need of a shower, and if it weren’t for the fact that they were ridiculously devoted to each other, he might have been worried about the one lasting bit of integrity they held any claim to. He assumed that just then they were having another “harmless” gush about some poor, attractive stranger nearby like a pair of tittering schoolgirls. He didn’t want to ask.

“You know, he looks like…”

“What, you really–”

Arthur sighed and turned another page.

“Should we–”

“Hey, Arthur,” ah, here it came, “put down that silly book for a moment, will you?”

Arthur’s brows turned down mightily, but when he finally looked up, he could see Francis and Antonio grinning at him from where they were tangled together. “…what.”

Francis’s grin was catlike as he flicked a lock of hair over his own shoulder. “Do you see them? The group of Americans over there– yes, the loud ones. Hard to miss.”

Arthur didn’t really have an interest in Americans, let alone loud ones, thus he had no idea what his friend was trying to do other than make him regret this trip that much more. But he did turn to look, despite himself, and– oh god, that was right, everyone was still naked. Right. He grimaced and found where Francis was looking, because he was right, they were a bit hard to miss and they weren’t very far away from them either. A group of young, vibrant men and women who were all shouting with one another with their dulled accents and tossing around a bright orange frisbee disc across the sand. A group of touring college students, they had to be, they looked far too young and far too foreign.

There was one in particular, tallest of the lot, and the one doing most of the yelling as he laughed and tossed the disc to a girl so hard, she nearly toppled into a nearby couple. A monstrous throw. It was no wonder, either, with arms toned and muscles that moved fluidly with each turn and twist of the man’s sculpted body, covered in skin as dark and sunkissed as any of the locals here but with a shock of golden blond hair atop his head that was mussed from a pair of small swimming goggles perched there, slicking back his bangs from his forehead.

Arthur stared.

And stared some more.

There was definitely something else he’d noticed but in attempting to make sure he’d seen what he’d seen (had he just done a double take?), he realized he was clutching the edges of his book so hard, the spine was bending unnaturally and he heard Antonio snicker.

“Ay, I think he saw it,” he commented, positively gleeful, “You saw, didn’t you Arthur?”

Good christ.

“What?” Arthur said intelligently.

“I bet I can tell what he’s thinking,” Francis murmured in a sing-song voice, suddenly nearer to his ear. “'Hung like a bloody horse’, right?”

“I am not!”

He was.

In any case, Francis’s English accent was utterly atrocious, a fact Arthur had commented on more than once. The problem was, he wasn’t completely wrong. There really wasn’t any nice or proper way to say it– the man, boy, whatever he was, certainly cut an impressive figure, even from a distance, and in more ways than one, and Arthur considered himself a bit of a creep for noticing but then, how could he not?!

His penis– it was huge. Quite large. Even in comparison with the rest of him. Swinging there, between the young man’s legs as he ran to and fro and stretched his limbs and cheered when one of his companions caught his toss one handed and sent it flying back. He had no idea how the man didn’t trip and fall face first into the sand with that added weight. He had no idea why he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it either.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He knew why– he was almost as gay as the two idiots next to him and they damned well knew it, but really he might have just had a preference for… well proportioned individuals. Didn’t everyone? Well proportioned, tanned, handsome, blond men who strutted about the beach like peacocks and looked directly at you, out of the blue.

Why was he looking at Arthur suddenly?

“Shit…!” Arthur went pale and promptly picked up his book again, covering his face like a moron while Francis all but cackled at him. He would have reached over to slap the tacky beard right off his face, but he was too afraid to lower his own shield against Mr. Tall Dark and Well Endowed. There was really no need to make things worse.

But then they got worse.

He heard it before he saw it, the brief and fleeting sound of something whirling past him and landing with a soft noise into the sand between the three of them. The blur of orange in the corner of his eye was impossible to miss, and Arthur felt his stomach flip violently at the sound of a very chipper “I’ve got it!” and he knew instantly the stranger was coming towards them at a speed that would prevent Arthur from flinging himself up and away to run in the opposite direction.

“ _Hola_!” said the blond American to the three of them.

“ _Hola_!” replied Antonio instantly without missing a beat.

“Oh god,” Arthur muttered between the pages of the book that he was close to eating for how hard he was shoving his face into it .

“ _'Allo_ … are you looking for something?” Francis asked the young man in that smarmy way that indicated he knew exactly why he was standing there, but the Frenchman always had something stupid to prove and never was able to say anything without making it sound like some kind of pick up line.

The man tilted his head at the three of them before laughing, and Arthur dared to peek over the top of his book and–

–receive a face full of softened yet perfectly formed cock,  _jesus fucking christ_.

“Haha, well yeah, my friend chucked our frisbee over here, sorry about that–” he was saying, and god it moved with every little move he made, Arthur felt as if he were going lightheaded as all the blood in his body that wasn’t currently lighting his face up like a damned Christmas tree headed promptly south of the border, “…didn’t mean to disturb you folk.”

There was a long pause, probably from the fact that Arthur was the only one staring stupidly at the man’s crotch while Antonio and Francis simpered, and the stranger was clearly just waiting to get his stupid toy back, but nobody was moving to retrieve it.

“It’s completely alright! You all look like you’re having a good time– on holiday?” Francis asked.

“Oh, uh– yeah, summer break– Dude, why are you wearing clothes?”

Arthur’s eyebrow twitched, reflexively scowling (at the man’s dick). “I beg your pardon?”

“Wow sorry, I guess that’s kinda rude, haha, I guess I just didn’t expect it! Don’t you feel out of place?” the stranger asked.

“How observant, I never would have realized I was still fully clothed here without your insight, thank you, you’re right, what a right fool I must look.”

There was a certain line that Arthur very often tried not to cross, but it was impossible when faced with certain humiliation and embarrassment. He was fixedly unable to keep track of the acerbic nature of his speech when things were too much, and he could just hear Francis’s dramatic eye roll in his direction.

The American didn’t say anything and Arthur hoped that meant he would walk away now so Arthur could go and find a place to bury himself in the sand up to his head and wait for the tide to come in, but no, he continued to stand there, and eventually Arthur had to tear his face away from the very big distraction in front of him and look up into the amused face of the gentleman who didn’t appear at all put off by his tone.

Oh dear. Well. He was handsome up close too, it seemed. And his eyes were blue, bluer than the skies behind him as a lovely backdrop as he leaned down to peer at Arthur.  

Francis, unable to help himself, chimed in, “You must forgive my friend, he is English. They don’t do well in the outdoors.”

Nevermind, Arthur was going to bury Francis in the sand and wait for the tide to come in. “You–”

“Well, I’d say you do look a little over-dressed. What’s that saying… 'When in Rome’?” the man said, seemingly having not registered that he was talking to anyone but Arthur, and if Arthur weren’t currently short-circuiting, he might have detected a bit of unnecessary heat from that statement. But instead of becoming more painfully aroused than he already was, Arthur just felt insulted.

“If that isn’t the most hilarious thing I’ve heard all day,” he began, dryly, “imagine, an American lecturing me on how to blend in with the locals. Color me shocked.”

Infuriatingly enough, the man just smiled at him innocently, and it was annoying that it actually made Arthur’s heart pound faster until he was sure he was going into cardiac arrest. “Hey now, I’m pretty good at blending in! And I’m not the one wearing my shorts on a nudie beach, am I.”

Arthur had noticed that, yes. More than once. And he could no longer take it anymore.

“Right,” he bit out, as he picked up the offending object that had brought the other over in the first place and promptly stood, shoving it at the broad, damp chest of the man in front of him, “well, it’s been a pleasure, here’s your frisbee, you’re welcome.”

And with that he was off, half stomping away in the sand (which was very hard to do, mind), and headed straight for the hill. He wouldn’t be able to stay another single moment there, not after that, and perhaps it was absurd but he didn’t care anymore. He would happily read by the roadside until his two sorry excuses for friends were done being twats for the day (not bloody likely, that).

Still on the beach, Francis laughed into his fist as Antonio shook his head and smiled helplessly at the stranger, who had watched Arthur leave with a look of confusion that bordered on hurt.

“I er, didn’t mean to make him mad…”

Antonio waved the statement away. “He’s not mad– He just has a hard time with being attracted to people. You know?”

The American nodded slowly, comprehending, a smile forming at the corner of his lips. “Ah. Huh.”

Francis, of course, caught it and ran with it. “I’m sure you’d love to get back to your friends now… oh, but– may I ask you one thing?”

When the young man turned to look at him expectantly, Francis smiled wider.

“How long are you in town, and where are you staying?”

–

Several hours later found Arthur tucked in the back of the dining room of the hotel (closest to the bar), picking at his lukewarm paella that he’d ordered an hour ago and considering that perhaps he should have ordered room service instead. The unfortunate thing was, Antonio and Francis shared the room right next to his, and were starting their usual nightly activities a bit earlier for whatever reason. They had no cares about who happened to be next door. Arthur was just glad they were at the end of their hallway, otherwise they risked getting escorted from the premises for disturbance of the peace.

It just figured that the beach would have made them frisky. Meanwhile, Arthur felt stupid for the entire thing. Antonio had tried to convince him that it was all fine, that he’d probably never see the stranger again, which gave Arthur mixed feelings to begin with. He didn’t really need more reminders that he was honestly pathetic when it came to dealing with strangers, and even worse when they were intimidatingly handsome. It didn’t help that the man had embarrassed him either, but even in hindsight Arthur was sure he’d probably overreacted. He often did.

It wasn’t really a secret either, that Arthur was painfully shy. Somehow that always lent itself to him hanging out with people who were on the utter opposite side of the spectrum, and it more often than not spilled over into his failed dating life. He could list on one hand the number of one-night stands with men who were everything Arthur was not, and everything Arthur shouldn’t have wanted, but he did. Not that that had anything to do with this, other than the fact that there were some things he couldn’t quite get over just yet. Like how he was fairly certain he was never going to see dick quite that perfect ever again.

His fork scratched against his plate aimlessly before he decided the food was ultimately a lost cause– his appetite had long since flown away from him, probably around the same time as his dignity. Pushing it aside, he stood up, heading for the bank of elevators in the main lobby, when he heard a high pitched giggle spawning from a gaggle of young girls standing by the reception desk. Arthur felt the little pinch in his temple that bespoke of an oncoming headache, and mashed the button on the elevator in the hopes it might arrive quicker.

As soon as the door slid open, he stepped forward, unmindful of the body he ended up colliding with that nearly sent him sprawling backward onto the well polished floor.

“Oh, sorry–” he burst out instantly, eyes wide and mouth already dry as he looked up into a pair of very familiar baby blues, because apparently life had decided it wanted to fuck with Arthur as much as possible for the next 24 to 48 hours.

“Hi!” the man from the beach greeted him, with the very same, insipid enthusiasm as before, “sorry, were you getting on?”

“No, I just always walk aimlessly into elevator doors when the mood strikes,” Arthur replied in a dry mumble, heart firmly lodged in his throat.

The American just looked at him, mouth parted as if he meant to reply to that, but changed his mind at the very last moment. Arthur tried to parse the expression on his face, but couldn’t, though he imagined it wasn’t a nice one, since Arthur couldn’t seem to say one word to him without being waspish. Call it a defense mechanism (or simply call him an uptight prick– Francis certainly did).

He wasn’t moving out of the way either. An elderly couple sauntered past the two of them standing there and promptly got onto the elevator Arthur had meant to board. He watched it leave, dumbly, while the stranger seemed to have either forgotten what he was doing and where he was going in favor of peering at Arthur like he was some sort of exhibit.

“So you’re staying here too, huh,” the blond said, finding his smile again.

“Yes, and you’re wearing clothing now. How observant of the both of us.”

The former statement was really a pity, in Arthur’s humble opinion, the memory of it had always been fresh but now it hit him like a stack of bricks. He could just imagine it even as the other man stood there in his jean shorts, sandals, and brightly colored tank that showed off more skin and rippling muscle than it covered. His hair still looked as mussed as before but with a pair of tacky white sunglasses instead of swim goggles and bangs in his eyes, eyes that gleamed at him and sent shockwaves down Arthur’s spine. And all of this was distressing, as he realized the man looked good even fully (mostly) clothed.

Well, shit.

The stranger half sighed, half laughed at him. “Dude. Are you always this friendly?”

“What?”

“What’s your name?”

“Do you always ask people for their names before offering yours?”

“Alfred.”

“What?” Arthur never really claimed to be good at conversation either.

“It’s Alfred,” the man replied winningly, “Yours?”

“Oh– I…”

The newly named Alfred just grinned at him. “You?”

Smartass.

Arthur should have seen this coming, but he hadn’t, and now he was making an even bigger fool of himself. His window of escape had long since closed, and though he could have certainly stepped around the other, he couldn’t seem to get his feet to move. Rather he felt frozen to the floor, trapped and being beaten about on the inside by the waves of his own self-consciousness and anxiety, a dangerous cocktail to be sure. At this point he was going to either turn tail and flee the hotel or pass out, either option would have been better than simply standing there, waiting for the earth to swallow him whole instead.

Or. Or– he could have done the proper thing and introduce himself as well.

“Alfred! Are you coming already? Ben called the cab!”

Apparently the group of girls he’d passed before had been the ones from the beach. At least he assumed they must have been the same, it’s not as if he would have recognized them with or without clothing. They weren’t like Alfred, who seemed to be able to make lasting impressions just by breathing and smiling. What a life he must have led.

“Yeah, coming! So,” Alfred called back to them before glancing down at Arthur again. “You party?”

“What?” Arthur had no idea where all of his vocabulary had gone and stowed itself away.

“Party! We’re hitting up some clubs. You wanna come?”

At first he thought the man was simply joking. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to take the piss out of him, and certainly some odd stranger inviting Arthur out to “party” (whatever that entailed), a man whom he’d literally known for the equivalent of 15 minutes, tops, qualified for either some grand conspiracy or a very bad joke, whether by Alfred’s own invention, or the very cosmos who saw fit to have a laugh at Arthur’s expense on a near daily basis.

“I don’t know you,” he said, and for a painful moment he realized how pitiful that sounded, even though it was the truth.

Alfred adjusted the sunglasses atop his head, and with infuriating calm, looked straight at Arthur, disarming him effortlessly with a single, casual shrug of his shoulders. “I know. I’m trying to fix that.”

There wasn’t much Arthur could say to that that wasn’t simply incoherent gibberish, but he’d proven at least three times that day that he was fast becoming fluent in it.

“Do you want to come?” Alfred repeated, ever patient.

“It’s Arthur,” Arthur replied, before mentally punching himself in the face.

He didn’t have a chance to correct himself or try and make any sense of the fact that he’d just replied to an unrelated question with his name, as Alfred was smarter than Arthur would have ever given the American credit for. He simply smiled with all his gleaming white teeth and took Arthur’s wrist in hand, already pulling him with him towards the revolving doors. Pulling Arthur away from the safety and security of his empty, lonely hotel room.

–

As it would happen, Arthur wasn’t really much of a clubbing person. Or a people person. Or much of an anything-that-requires-too-many-bodies-touching-all-at-once sort of person. This was already ticking most of his 'no’ boxes, as Alfred had all but dragged him out of the hotel and stuffed him into a crowded cab with more strangers, who all looked perfectly unperturbed by his presence. Arthur then started to wonder if he were being kidnapped for some underground ring of smugglers who targeted middle aged British men for their organs–that seemed the most plausible, and the only reason someone like Alfred would go out of their way to sling their arms around his shoulders and chatter on like Arthur was meant to be there when he really wasn’t.

The club itself was claustrophobic, colorful, and filled with slender, gyrating bodies that shimmered with sweat and glitter, glowing in the darkness. If ever there were a proper visual needed for flagrant hedonism, this would certainly be at the top of the list of a great many things. Arthur also realized, for the umpteenth time, that Alfred (and his friends, and everyone in the immediate vicinity) was awfully young. He hadn’t asked him his age yet, but the more Arthur guessed and wondered, the more fearful he was that he’d ogled someone half his age. He’d never thought 34 to feel so ancient before.

Alfred’s group parted themselves and began mixing and dancing and Alfred himself led them both straight for the bar. Arthur liked bars, a lot. He mostly liked them in quieter, smokey places where one could actually hear another person speaking if they chose to listen.

“It’s nice to meet you, by the way!” the American practically shouted in his face, lips too close to Arthur’s face and Arthur felt rampant heat creeping up the back of his neck. It was already too warm in here. Much too warm. “Wanna drink?”

“Rum,” Arthur replied, perhaps a little unconsciously moving closer so as not to get trampled by the people on all sides of them crowding together at once.

“Straight rum? You sure?”

Arthur nodded. He wanted something that was sweet but would burn.

Alfred leaned away from him to talk to the pretty dark haired bartender on the other side of the counter– in fluent Spanish no less, leaving him once again feeling like he was out of place. Antonio would have been impressed and probably tried to kiss Alfred were he there to hear it (he was glad Antonio wasn’t there and was too busy defiling every available surface of his hotel room with Francis). Moments later Alfred came back to him.

Arthur couldn’t help it. He wanted to know. “Are you even old enough?”

His comment was only half facetious. Alfred’s smile was nothing but amused. “Why? Don’t I look 'old enough’ to you?”

Fuck. “I don’t–”

“Twenty-three,” Alfred said, making a show of enunciating the two words in a way that might be considered obscene, “I’m 'old enough’ for a lot of things.”

There was the heat again, crawling up his back, his neck, spreading across his face. Alfred’s eyes were narrowed at him playfully, and Arthur wondered what he’d done to deserve a horrible (beautiful) death like this one. Especially when their drinks came back, and Arthur was served with a large, heaping fruit monstrosity that was clearly not what he’d ordered but Alfred insisted 'it has rum in it!’ like that was supposed to make him feel better about it.

And just like that Arthur was wholly unimpressed but then Alfred just laughed at him and told him to try it, so Arthur did– sickly sweet, sticky, and still not what he’d asked for. Alfred offered him a sip of his instead and Arthur almost choked on the little red straw in his mouth.

One sip, three sips. Arthur was draining the glass in short order, despite his grumblings, because Alfred wanted to know how old he was, what he did, where he was from (“British, right? Not Australian?”), the way he looked at him was really what made it so difficult to control how much of the drink he was actually consuming, and how quickly. The other man was vibrant, shining with enthusiasm for everything, especially when he talked about himself, his grades, his travels across Europe while he still had the chance. Alfred was 23, in his senior year of university, and on a dream summer vacation, because why not. What else did attractive, well off Americans do for fun?

But he also seemed fascinated with the words out of Arthur’s mouth, like Arthur was someone he considered equally interesting and fun and that was just utterly impossible. Alfred should have been out on the floor, with all of the other beautiful people, not sitting there with an awkward stranger who was too much of a prude to even take his clothes off on a nude beach or enjoy his holiday like a normal person. More and more Arthur grew suspicious, but his head was swimming and anytime he attempted to form a coherent sentence, i.e. 'what the fuck is wrong with you, you’re too handsome for a bloke like me’, all of it would mush together until he was simply staring up at the too-tall American with blank, glossy-eyed and unreadable stares.

“Do you dance?” Alfred asked him as Arthur finished the last bit of sweetness from the bottom of his glass.

“Not without a gun to my head,” Arthur replied, and Alfred couldn’t stop laughing at him for things he said, even when they were clearly rude or off putting to most people. Alfred was weird. And, Alfred was the most gorgeous man he’d ever met. Who knew if there was a connection.

But no, really, Arthur could not dance, he wasn’t going to lie, if asked, about the fact that sometimes he shuffled his feet a little bit whenever he left the radio on in the kitchen while making meals, but that wasn’t the same thing as crushing one’s hips against another person’s while loud, bleating music rippled around the room so hard, it made the whole body vibrate.

He was pulled through an almost literal wall of people, and before he could even think or breathe or find some sort of purchase, Alfred’s hands were at his waist and he was moving them to the beat that Arthur could no longer hear over his own heart. The entire ordeal felt like what he might expect hallucinogens to feel like, everything around him, the sounds and the colors all blended together, but Alfred was still there, like a beacon. And, managing to be extremely touchy, but clever about it. If Arthur felt a brief squeeze to his rear end, he said nothing. If he felt the curve and shape of Alfred’s length, the image of which that was still firmly imprinted in his mind, grinding against him during a turn, he was a bit too far gone to care really, and Alfred didn’t linger. His gaze on him did, though.

“You’re not bad,” Alfred said near his ear, and it felt like flames licking at his skin. “See?”

“Or you’re just drunk,” Arthur replied over the music, though he had no evidence of such a thing.

The other man chuckled. “Takes a lot more than that. Maybe I don’t need it, though.”

He wasn’t sure what that meant.

Arthur didn’t even know if he was still moving, still dancing, anymore. He could have been standing there, allowing Alfred to move him as his arms were up around the younger man’s neck, and it was infectious really, the unraveling, raw feeling of letting go, giving in to this mysterious boy who smiled much too easily for him and Arthur couldn’t help but smile back. Their faces were close, their bodies closer, and the daring, beautifully anxious moment in which he thought he might be kissed, but Alfred never let their lips touch, not once. And Arthur had a feeling it was on purpose, meant to make him crave it.

The song changed, and Arthur only noticed it because one of the girls from Alfred’s friend group came over to assert herself against Alfred with careless swaying and the flirtatious batting of her eyelashes. She pulled him further into the throng, and Arthur felt something like dismay seep instantly into his bones as Alfred went willingly. That left Arthur shuffling awkwardly in the middle of the room, no one paid him much mind, and then another stranger appeared to drape himself over Alfred from behind.

He took that as his cue to move back to the bar, ambling and just watching as Alfred almost disappeared in a flurry of lights and limbs. Almost. He could make out the other man, still shining, drawing others to him like moths to a flame. Arthur had to marvel at it, really, how easily Alfred seemed to be swept up, how he moved, how he bewitched others just as easily as he had him, and Arthur still had no idea how it’d happened. He ordered himself a drink and convinced himself it didn’t taste bitter, sipping from the glass as his skin still tingled from where the other had touched him. It was starting to fade.

He felt a little sick, a little dizzy, and for the first time that evening recalled that he hadn’t told Antonio or Francis of his whereabouts. Whether or not they were still busy with each other, Arthur never would have wandered off like this, with so little sense, under normal circumstances. And in that moment he really wished one of them were here– they might have at least stopped him from stumbling out of the club ten minutes later, alone, like a lost child, they probably would have told him he was being silly.

The air was much cooler outside, as was to be expected. Arthur inhaled deeply, though the cloud of intoxication didn’t lift, and he knew he was drunker than he should have been from only two cocktails.

“I’m an idiot,” he muttered to himself.

“Where’d you go?”

Arthur whipped around, finding Alfred standing there, a halo around him from the stream of lights still flashing inside. He swallowed, glowering at him through the fog.

“I wanted some air,” he replied petulantly, folding his arms across his chest defensively, for some reason. Arthur wasn’t mad, or anything. At least, he didn’t think he was. Half pissed and maybe a little needy towards the first person to show him any real attention in half a decade, maybe. The American was looking at him curiously, almost as if he knew.

“Cool. Me too. Do you want to go somewhere else?” he then asked, and Arthur was absolutely floored by the sheer nonchalance with which he was asked.

“What about your friends…?” _What about that girl on your arm? Or the handsome lad who tried to dry hump you like I want to a little while ago?_

“They know where the hotel is and so do I. Come on!”

He would tell himself later that he hadn’t reacted like a pup adhering to its master, though he had moved rather quickly to follow. He was still dizzy, still warm with drink and an embarrassing amount of relief.

“You don’t know me, Alfred,” Arthur repeated as they started down the sidewalk at a slow, swaying pace.

“You keep saying that, but I mean, isn’t that kind of the point of inviting you out?” Alfred replied.

“Are you always like this with people you don’t know?”

“No, but maybe I thought you were cute– unless that’s a problem for you?”

The easiness with which he made such a statement, and the lopsided smile he gave him after made Arthur almost choke on the butterflies making their way from his stomach to his throat.

“Oh my god,” Arthur moaned. He wanted to hit him. It was absolutely absurd to be this candid, but the other didn’t seem to find a problem with it. In fact, he had no qualms about weaving their hands together as another group of tourists meandered past, and Arthur nearly stumbled ahead. Alfred caught him, bringing him closer to his side.

He didn’t mean that. He couldn’t possibly have meant that.

“I know where we can go,” Alfred said from beside him, squeezing Arthur’s fingers as he led them along. And yet again, Arthur followed.

–

“You’re kidding.”

“What? Night swims are the best. Super refreshing.”

Of course Arthur hadn’t expected that they would return here, to the scene of his humiliation. He had silently vowed to himself to never return to another nude beach again, but Alfred was far too clever and very good at surprising him. Blessedly the view here was improved by the fact that there were hardly any people here now, only dark specks strolling further along the coast from where they were standing. There was a slight chill rising from the water, and the waves crashed at the shore in a peaceful, rhythmic dance.

It was beautiful, really, with the lights of the city in the distance, the moon hanging silver across a starry evening sky, casting its beams across the crystal sea. The air was purer, cleaner here, so he could actually see the stars, as opposed to where he lived, the nicer days were actually the cloudy ones. Arthur was mesmerized by it for a moment, until he heard Alfred move beside him. It was a mistake to turn to look at him, as the man had started to strip, and Arthur ended up choking on his own spit.

“God, it feels so nice out here,” Alfred chirped, stretching obscenely. Thank goodness for the full moon, the lecherous, horrible part of Arthur thought, unhelpfully. “You coming in?”

“If it wasn’t obvious before, I’m not exactly partial to undressing in public,” Arthur replied, thinking he’d made his point quite clear. There are many other things, from a visit to the dentist to actual death that Arthur would rather do instead, especially in front of the American Adonis.

But he should have known his protests wouldn’t make much of a difference. Alfred seemed to take every ‘no’ from Arthur as a personal challenge, challenges that he took, head on, and with relish. It made Arthur very wary of the knee-buckling smiles he received in return, because he just knew the other man was about to shock him.

“So what are you partial to?” the American asked, sauntering closer, and it felt rather a lot like the moment in the club, where before he knew it, the younger man was close, too close, radiating lingering sunshine, and fragrant cologne, and he wondered how it was possible that being out in the open like this could still feel so claustrophobic. He felt contained, trapped, and somehow it was still invigorating.

He tilted his head up to look at him, tongue-tied and perfectly still as Alfred reached out with impossible gentleness to curl one of his large, warm hands at the bump of Arthur’s hip. It seared through the thin khaki shorts he wore, while Alfred’s other hand caught in the collar of his shirt.

“When in Rome, old man,” Alfred murmured, his voice like liquid heat.

“I wish I hadn’t told you my age,” Arthur croaked, lamely.

“You thought you were too old for me.”

“It’s not my fault you look as childish as you act.”

Alfred laughed deeply as the first button of Arthur’s top slipped through the hole, and he followed them, one by one, with a finger. “Damn, you are savage.”

“Alfred–”

“One swim, Arthur. Just one?” his finger caught in the very last button, and Arthur felt his shirt opening with the wind, the breeze spilling goosebumps across his skin instantly.

Just one.

That was how Arthur ended up taking the plunge, all the way in the way in the deep end, as it were. This entire night had been an exercise in keeping his head just above water, just enough that he might remember this night when it was all over, when he woke up from this amazing dream wherein he’d met someone too beautiful to touch, like an open flame, and it could only end with his becoming burned, turned to ash and stardust.

Alfred pulled him towards the water, their hands clasped and secure, and Arthur felt the plush sand sink between his toes as they stepped past the gently lapping waves. Arthur followed him until he felt almost nothing underfoot, until suddenly he was floating, his only tether to anything being the man in front of him, Alfred’s sliver of a smile like a beacon as he drew him closer, effortlessly, and they collided together.

Arthur already had the taste of salt in his mouth before Alfred slanted their lips together, and now it was a strange, intoxicating mix of coconut and rum, and he swiped at the corner of the younger man’s smile with his tongue, already desperate for another taste, another hit of what surely had to be a drug. Alfred was sweet poison, leading him along like a ruddy addict as they clashed with tongue and teeth and breath.

There was nothing for him to hold onto and not for him to catch really when Alfred’s hands grabbed hold of his hips, and Arthur’s felt his fate was sealed instantly with the hot press of their bodies, Alfred’s mouth dragging down his throat, catching the droplets of sea spray as the water rocked around them.

The more they moved together, the more Arthur felt as though he might drown, and the burn in his lungs had never felt so good. And just when he thought the sensations were too much, he felt large, nimble fingers curled between his submerged thighs, fitting around his cock, sliding up and down in smooth yet rapid strokes. Words that were meaningless, they truly could have been anything, were whispered in his ear, but he couldn’t make them out past his own erratic heartbeat. He felt Alfred’s own shaft, plumping against his stomach until the man brought them together, spreading sparks that left them both groaning against each other from the heat and friction. The last thing Arthur would remember while gasping Alfred’s name into the ether were the stars, his eyes fixed upon them as he gave in to the irresistible push and pull, forward into Alfred’s arms, his hand, his kisses.

“Do you want to go back to the hotel?” Alfred asked him moments later, in a voice thick as treacle, decadent and heavy with meaning. He was asking if Arthur wanted to continue this, to go further, to go to entirely new heights with him, and he had no concept of how things had come to this. But ultimately, he didn’t particularly care, either. Arthur had to wait until he came back down to earth, after spending himself in Alfred’s fist beneath the waves, and then kissed him in response.

–

Knock, knock, knock.

Arthur’s head was pounding. It felt rather like being beaned in the head with something heavy, and he fought with his pillow for a moment in some effort to block out the noise that seemed to be rattling within and around his skull.

Knock, knock, knock.

It was getting worse. Arthur couldn’t think of a single reason why any living thing on earth would be up at such an ungodly hour just to wreak havoc. It wasn't the first time he’d thought so, he certainly didn’t trust so called “morning people”, as any person who believed moving around before the sun was up could not possibly be called human in his opinion.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK–

“Arthur, if you don’t answer the door in two seconds, I am going to have Antonio break it down, and then I will hold you personally responsible for the destruction of property and legal fees–”

“Christ,” Arthur growled into the mussed bedding beneath him and tore himself from the veritable cocoon of blankets he’d found himself wrapped in. His hair was a nest of frazzled flyaways and his mouth tasted of what he thought the lining of a rubbish bin might, and it was with nothing but pure, frothing irritation that managed to propel him up and on his feet, the momentum of which nearly sent him stumbling into night stand and tripping over the hotel slippers next to the bed.

“Arthur–!”   
  
“I’m coming, stop your bloody shrieking!” he called back, smudging a fist across his eyes as he marched for the door, throwing it open with a hiss. “What!”

There was a significant pause, during which Arthur noticed two things. One being that both Francis and Antonio were indeed standing outside his door, fully dressed (well, mostly, being that it was Francis and Antonio, and their definition of ‘clothing’ was rather loose at best), and two being that Arthur was… definitely not. It was a realization come too late as Francis, already wearing one of his cheshire grins, instantly gave a low whistle and tapped two fingers to his lips in interest.

“ _Bonjour_ , Arthur. We were wondering if you’d like to come down with us for breakfast, hm?”

Arthur deadpanned, contemplating slamming the door in both their faces, as if it might save his pride a little. It wouldn’t, but it would feel damned good, he thought. But before he could, he noticed that while Francis was so busy smirking at him, Antonio was looking right past him, curiously fixated on something over Arthur’s shoulder. He couldn’t fathom what until he heard it.

“Man, breakfast sounds awesome,” came a very prompt though sleepy declaration from halfway across the room (most definitely from the bed Arthur had just been tangled up in moments before), and Arthur felt the blood drain out of his face.

He whipped around so quickly, it nearly gave him whiplash, eyes blown wide as he watched a mop of sun blond hair shift from underneath the sheets Arthur had so carelessly tossed aside before, and the shape of a body that gave him a rather frightening and intense jolt of recognition. Familiarity. And unfortunately a touch of arousal that set his toes curling against the carpet from the brush of a memory within his senses.

Alfred finally confirmed his presence, pushing back the last of the covers and revealing himself to be lounging carelessly on the bed with his naked skin bared to the morning sunlight filtering through the windows– as well as the greedy and interested glances of Francis and Antonio at the door. Arthur immediately shoved himself between the delicious display behind him and the two busybodies craning their necks like perturbed waterfowl and cleared his throat.

“I’m not hungry. If you’ll excuse me–”

“Seems you’ve ordered room service already,” Francis drawled, moments from falling into hysterics no doubt, “well done. Lunch then?”

“Perhaps after a few more hours of sleep,” Arthur replied, and narrowed his eyes as if daring either one of them to make a comment on that.

“Arthur, it’s 11AM.”

“Exactly. Goodbye!”

He promptly closed the door, only to hear Antonio’s enthusiastic tittering in Spanish that Arthur didn’t bother to make out because there were certainly more pressing matters. He turned to see Alfred grinning at him, and unwittingly rendering Arthur incapable of speech just by way of being there in the first place. He couldn’t remember some things about last night, the important bits really, like Alfred’s panting in his ear, Alfred’s cologne in his nose, Alfred’s hot mouth between his legs, the shape of Alfred’s cock–

Yes. The important bits.

“Well good morning to you too,” Alfred commented sly, and Arthur realized he’d started to grow red as his memories began to run away with him, “so like,  _can_ we order room service? ‘Cause I actually am pretty hungry.”

“Wh– You’re… You’re staying?” Arthur asked, wondering if spending an entire night together locked in an intimate embrace suddenly constituted more than just the shameful gathering of clothes from the floor and stumbling back to one’s own hotel room. That was usually how these things turned out, at least in Arthur’s piddling bit of experience. He tried to ignore the sour twinge in his belly at the thought of it now, but it wouldn’t be surprising to him if Alfred simply walked away.

Granted, it wasn’t like Arthur was going to kick Alfred out either, he made such a lovely picture lying there anyway, but he also wasn’t a rude jackass (usually). He hoped the other man didn’t think he was one for asking in the first place, but technically Arthur still hadn’t gotten over the fact that not only had Alfred been flirting with him all of yesterday, but he’d legitimately followed through on it. Alfred found him attractive and interesting, apparently enough to warrant an extended amount of time in his presence.

Desperation or boredom, it was anyone’s guess really.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“I-I don’t know! I don’t even know–”  _what to do with you, why are you here, are you barmy?_  “–exactly how to– well, it’s not as though I do this often!”

Alfred titled his head like a very curious and very adorable dog. “What, pick up guys on vacation?”

The strangled noise he gave in response must have been all the answer he needed to give, as the American boy laughed like he hadn’t heard him do so before yet, which just went to show how little Arthur still knew about him, and how badly he wanted to know  _more_. It made absolutely no sense and he was starting to question if he had perhaps lost his own mind to the oppressive Spanish sun and heat.

“Me neither, dude. I’m not that easy.”

“Oh, but I am?” Arthur responded and instantly regretted it. Honestly he was pretty easy, but anyone would be if someone like  _Alfred_  approached them.

Alfred swung his long legs over the side of the bed, stretched obscenely as he stood up and began to saunter towards him, further frying what rationale Arthur pitifully clung to, “I don’t know, you made me work pretty hard for it, actually. I hope you go easier on me today.”

Today. Alfred wanted to spend another day with him, and it was then that Arthur knew he couldn’t take this. It had to be a fever dream, one he’d been so waylaid by he didn’t realize he was still in London inside his flat, dying in bed with his cats and and the crumbling wallpaper as witnesses to his unremarkable life. Dreaming about nude beaches and handsome American men, his subconscious was certainly having a laugh at his expense, if that were the case.  

But then Alfred kissed him again, and Arthur “woke”. 

“We’re leaving tomorrow morning,” Arthur breathed, moments later, mouth slackened and wet and completely at a loss. He didn’t know why he’d said so, considering it wasn’t like Alfred was proposing marriage. He wanted to spend another day together, at the beach, at the club, maybe right here in this room to hide themselves away with and inside each other until the holiday was over, and they returned to their two separate lives apart from one another. Two perfect strangers– well, more like one impossibly perfect stranger and one neurotic middle aged fool who went starry-eyed for a blond with a massive knob like the shallow person he was. The point still stood.

But Alfred didn’t seem to miss a beat as Arthur waxed poetically in his own head about their inevitable parting, shrugging his shoulders as he continued, “Well you’ll give me your number, right? Not like I can’t call you.”

Arthur just blinked at him. “On the phone?”

Alfred laughed. “Well,  _yeah_ , that’s normally how people in the 21st century communicate. You can’t live that far away from me.”

There was a significant pause, during which he could swear Alfred’s grin became all the more impish, the bit of knowing in his eyes that sent Arthur’s insides flipping wildly with confusion and tentative hope that he should not have been allowed to have.

“Is it really so weird that I kind of really like you? Pretty sure I told you that,” Alfred commented unhelpfully, which alone should have been enough to strike Arthur dead upon the hotel room floor in an instant. But he was still stuck on the fact that the opportunity to potentially see each other again was well within his grasp, well within this reality, and he couldn’t let it go. The wheels in his head were still turning, albeit creakily, rusted from shock and an apparently mild hangover.

“I thought you were American!” he blurted, aimlessly.

“I am! You never asked where I went to school.”

“You said university–”

“University of London.”

Christ. He was undone. Arthur was completely and utterly undone. No amount of barbs could save him now, and he felt weakened beneath the onslaught of Alfred’s charm. Worse yet, the other seemed to know it, know him intimately already. Whatever this was, whatever had barely just begun, was already too much.

“… You’re a cheeky bastard, aren’t you. You came here just to mess with me.”

 _I really like you too,_  his mind supplied, belatedly, as it was wont to do.

“No, I came here to have a good time and soak up the local culture of  _España_ , which apparently you’re not very good at but I think I fixed that for ya.”

The git  _winked_  at him and Arthur narrowed his eyes in frustration and furious attraction.

“You  _are_  a cheeky bastard.”

“I’m cute though, right?”

“I certainly thought some parts of you were.”

“Like my junk? You seemed to like it a lot yesterday, especially when you were handing back my frisbee–”

Arthur finally had to shut him up with a nip to the lower lip and Alfred grabbed hold of him like he might never let go as they fumbled their way back to the bed. He definitely felt like he’d been bamboozled by a 23 year old swindler. A 23 year old swindler who apparently had a thing for bitter British killjoys, for whatever reason, reasons he hoped he would have the time to find out, eventually.


End file.
